


The Fear of Living

by panicinthestreets



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 1980s, Horror, Multi, Other, Stephen King - Freeform, Stephen King's IT - Freeform, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-06-07 09:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15216401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panicinthestreets/pseuds/panicinthestreets
Summary: Based on the 2017 adaptation of Stephen King's IT. Patrica Doyle moved to America as a young child to escape the violence of Ireland. She arrives in the small town of Derry at the age of twelve and immediately became an outsider. Along with the constant torment of Henry Bowers and his gang, it is what lurks beneath the depths of the town that scares Patrica even more. When she becomes a member of the loser's club, will she be able to defeat her biggest fear?





	1. Patrica Doyle Gets Left Off.

**Author's Note:**

> I also have this published work on my Quotev account.

      As Patrica Doyle passed the jail cells, wrists cuffed at the back and her orange jumpsuit baggy against her lean figure; she looked like the most dangerous woman on Earth. Eight months in this place due to a robbery; she would soon be free and burst into the world like a gust of wind. She'd been in and out her whole life, ever since her teenage years. Being apart of many crimes, yet never being the committer. It was always psycho boyfriends and drugged-up party friends that encouraged her to get involved. "You'll behave out there, won't you?" The prison guard said, completely deadpan. Patrica sent a smirk his way, not speaking a word. The handcuffs were off, her clothes and belongings shoved into her hand. Freedom was hers.

     Patrica walked to the bus stop behind the towering walls once she was released from prison. The sun was scorching her olive skin, a tan that came from living under America's hot ball of gas they had the privilege of experiencing. She used to be so pale, her times in Ireland, so pale and dirty. And here she was, staring down at her old hands but looking beyond with her youthful face. She smiled; wrinkles formed at the slits of her eyes. You wouldn't believe she was near forty, but that she was. She had seen so much, and had more to encounter.

     The bus pulled over and Patrica stepped on, heading for the city. She hadn't lived in New York for long; like the traveler she is, she never settles in one place. Constantly going from state to state, motel to motel. It's a lifestyle she thinks she'll never escape. She only stayed in one place for a long period of time, and when she did, bad things happened. _You carry a Gypsy's curse, Patricia._  


     While Patrica watched by the dirt roads for signs of urban land, she felt like she _needed_ to remember something. That way of knowing you have to remember something, because you're about to walk into that said thing. It made Patrica frown down at her mobile phone, which she held between her hands. Those prison guards wouldn't have the audacity to charge it. Her reflection in the black, blanch screen was glaring. Watching herself frown, trying to think; seeing the gears of her mind turning. She used to count down the days, but then you forget after a couple of years. It used to haunt her, she used to remember it in her nightmares. Her childhood friends, the caravan, the bullies, her first kiss, the thing, the entity; _IT_. 

     She immediately looked out to the window.

     The sun was as hot as it was twenty seven years ago. She felt small again, her hair long and tugged, bare-footed with at least three teeth missing. Dirty, so dirty, to the point were you wouldn't know her real skin tone. That gut-wrenching fear came washing back again. The adrenaline rush when she used to run as fast as she could. The bruises on her body, and the laughter that came after the blows. Patrica sunk into the chair and with a sense of doubt; attempted to turn on her mobile phone.

     The power bar glared red, five percent away from cutting off. Twenty seven missed calls from an unknown number followed by the same amount of voicemails. It's been twenty seven years already. The nostalgia was the oblivion; all she knew that once she goes back to Derry it will be worse than any crime she has ever committed. Yet, she had to go; she only remembers making the promise.

     Patrica phoned back the unknown number, staring off into space as it seemed to ring forever.


	2. The Doyles Move To Derry

     In the summer of 1988 the Doyle's - an Irish-Catholic Traveler family from all walks of life - moved to the North East of America and settled into Derry, Maine. Since the beginning of '84, the Doyle family arrived in America; bare footed, illiterate and eager for the American dream. Ever since Patrica could begin to think she was only used to the gloomy clouds of Ireland, with her family caravan parked on the fields on the outskirts of towns. Yet, her family had been on-foot long before, settling in small towns of Britain before Patrica's mother ran off with Patrica's father to Ireland and spent the rest of their travels going East to West.  
     Patrica's mother Anna-Maria Doyle, was an elegant Romani woman who came from the travelling community along with her parents and ten siblings. In her early twenties they traveled South to North of Britain, spending years escaping poverty from the rest of Europe. When industry was failing in Britain, Anna-Maria met a charming Irish lad on the West Coast of Scotland and found herself running off to the Republic of Ireland with him; naive to the conflict that was apparent.

     That is why the Doyle's are in America. To escape the violence and horror that was Ireland. The IRA were at their peak in the seventies, when Patrica was only a baby. But even as late of the early eighties, Patrica was used to being isolated from other Irishmen, both Catholic and Protestant. She still finds it difficult to understand, and it wasn't until Patrica moved to America she realized why her religion and lifestyle was alien to others.  
     "Gypsy?" The inspectors at the boarders asked when they off-boarded the boat. His voice was monotone, but his eyes burned into Anna-Maria's Madonna necklace and their Romani caravan as if it was a picture of his dead loved ones. Patrica always hated that word, _Gypsy_ ; people said it with such dirt and dislike. All they could do was nod and move on.  
"America is Protestant and run by White man, my child." Patrica's mother explained, her English still broken after all these years, "But it is full of hope and prosperity. It will be good place to live."

     But was it? The weather was better, that was the only thing Patrica admired. Everything was too big, the roads were long and the air was dry. You couldn't bathe in the water as it was so dirty, your bare feet were burnt and blistered on the hot ground. Patrica, after all these years, also didn't like the attitude of Americans. You were treated with dignity in Ireland, as a hope of future; as tomorrow may not come to you. In America, you were seen but not heard.

     Patrica, her mother and grandmother traveled into Derry, Maine in the dead of night, they always did. Driving themselves into the outskirts with their authentic caravan attached to the mobile caravan. They have carried the old wagon with them for the sake of feeling at home; memories were made and Patrica liked to sleep in it in the hot summer nights. It had belonged to her father's family, the Irish Travelers, ever since the 1950s and has been kept looked after over the years. It reminded them of Ireland when America became too tough to live in, yet, every place they lived in was tough.  
     Patrica's mother left her with her grandmother for the night, deciding to scope the pubs and night life. She always done that, Patrica noticed that over the years. She would come back with her breath smelling of sweet gin and her eye makeup smudged; yet still modest in a motherly way. Patrica looked at her grandmother pouring a glass of whiskey, sipping on it. Her grandmother was still young, still in her fifties. The shimmer of the twenty year old irish whiskey sent a chill down Patrica's back. Drunk people were different from non-drunk people, Pat noticed; they say mean things and do stupid things they regret or ignore out of embarrassment. Her grandmother was verbal, _very_ verbal when she was drunken. Yet, she was tired tonight, she didn't want to drink her thoughts away; which made Pat sigh in relief.

     "You go to school tomorrow, young one." Anna-Maria walked inside the caravan. She was back early, maybe there wasn't much. She ran her hands through her silk black hair and Patrica frowned. "I haven't been to school since Ireland, mother." Patrica pointed out, her rich Irish tones conveying how Alien she was from the American lifestyle. Anna-Maria gave a small smile.  
     "We will settle in Derry, Patty." Anna-Maria announced, "We should find a place called home."  
     A second shiver went down Patrica's spine that night. The last time she called Derry a "home" it was in Ireland, where The Troubles happened constantly. The Doyles had arrived just after The Battle of Bogside; into a state of tension between Catholic and Protestant. Patrica had been born into that conflict, born violence and negative energy. After the rise of the IRA, the Doyles left and headed back down South, where riot and riot began to follow. Patrica refused to call Derry, Maine a home if it was going to be as violent.

     "I will go to school tomorrow morning." Patrica sighed out, before climbing into bed and closing her eyes tight; thinking of her happy dreams.


	3. Patrica Goes To School.

     Patrica Doyle's legs swung back and forth as she and her mother waited outside the Headmaster's office. She looked down the ever winding corridor that they walked along, looking into classrooms to meet the eyes of curious students at the sunkissed, queer passersby. Immediately Patrica was certain she would be different when she saw their looks; it was the same in Ireland. No matter how Catholic she was and the fact she carried Irish blood, the fact she was Gypsy always made her the odd one out. _Gypsy_ , Patrica grimaced, she hoped Americans never used the word so harshly. Yet, this is the same country that kept black people as slaves and held Japanese concentration camps.

     "Mrs Doyle." The Headmaster called. Both ladies entered his office and he cleared his throat. Patrica wore her Sunday clothes; denim dungarees with a green and white striped shirt and brown brogues. Her mother wore her usual white cottom blouse, dark red skirt that flowed to her ankles and an orange scarf cuffed by the bends of her elbows. Patrica's long black hair was scrubbed thoroughly and braided down the back, her baby hairs poking out like little flower stems.  
     The meeting was quick. Anna-Maria told the Headmaster of her education in Ireland, but then the downfall of her education once she moved to America. Pat had always had a talent for remembering things. And even though her grammar could improve, her imagine was vivid and she was amazing at storytelling. The Headmaster hummed grizzly; like a bear trying to work out which trout to catch first. Yet, Patrica felt privileged to be in his presence. If it had been a few decades earlier, she and her mother would've been told to take a hike. But they were given a chance this time. Patrica enjoyed being educated, it meant she could teach her mother and grandmother also. She remembered back to the first time she taught her mother how to signature her name and the light that came to her beetle-black eyes.  
  


     "I shall put her into the 6th Grade." The Headmaster said, "She seems to be someone of intellect; her teachers back in Ireland have high praise for her."  
     Patrica grinned. She wouldn't be held back, it seemed. Anna-Maria nodded and thanked the bear-like Headmaster, knowing Patrica will explain the decision later. She'll have a lot to catch up on, but she had the determination to do so. She aspired to be more than just a housewife, which mostly all the women in the family have become. She could be an astronaut, a journalist, a detective. It was 1988 god dammit!  
     "I won't be held back, mother." Patrica said as they walked out and down the corridor, "I will be in schooling with people my age."  
Anna-Maria began to smile, "That is exciting." And Patrica nodded in agreement. The Headmaster had given her a timetable and she looked at it with eager eyes. English was first. Patrica grinned. She hugged her beautiful mother, kissed her hand and they both parted ways. Patrica skipped down the hall, following the arrows and signs that guided her to her first class. Coming to a halt, she was at the front door of the English classroom. She knocked three times.

     "Enter." A man's voice projected. Patrica entered as she was told; putting herself in tolerance mode. Suddenly Patrica Doyle felt like the smallest person in the room. As everyone stared at her, making their prejudices, Patrica darted her eyes to the skinny and bald English teacher who was now towering over her.  
     "What would your name be, Miss?" He asked.  
     "Patrica Doyle." She didn't realize how thick her accent was. It hadn't sunk in yet that she was foreign; an alien from outer space. Her distinct pale skin but thick black hair was different from the sunkissed, mousey hair of the Yankees before her. Blue eyes stared her the beetle-black eyes from the face that was littered in freckles. She could see some of the Americans wanting to laugh.  
     "A newbie this late into the year. Unusual. You can sit up the back with Uris." The teacher said. What was a Uris? Patrica made her way to the back. As she walked, she heard a boy shout to her, "Uris is the one with the frisbee on his head!"  
     Everyone burst into laughter. Patrica frowned, but found a red-faced boy by the back with not only a circular patch on the crown of his head. Patrica looked at it in wonder. It was the same circular patch the Bishops would wear when they came to mass on Saint's Days; except it was a dark navy blue with gold stitching instead of a rich purple. _He couldn't be a Bishop_ , Patrica thought. As the English teacher gave the boy who called the wannabe-Bishop a frisbee wearer into trouble, Patrica made eye contact with Uris.  
     "Are you a Bishop?" Patrica asked in wonder.  
     "Excuse me?" Uris frowned.  
     "Nothing." She quickly dismissed. She was being stupid. He can't be a Bishop, he was way too young. But why was he wearing it? Did he have a bald patch on his head? Had he felt it too hot to wear a hat? The curiosity ate away at her.

     Patrica didn't talk to anyone else the rest of the school day. She sat alone at lunchtime and tried to stomach the stale dinner-lady food; as she wasn't sure if it would be her only meal for today. Her Grandmother might make soup, which would tie them over a few days. But for now, Patrica finished her plate clean in hopes it would fill her til sunrise tomorrow.  
     Later, when school finished, Patrica discovered they only had two weeks of school left until they broke off for Summer. She also overheard a few stories; the latest gossip of Derry. Same to Derry, Ireland; a lot of deaths. Patrica immediately blocked them out, feeling her stomach churn from the thought of Ireland. She held her beige mesh bag filled with her new books close to her as she began to make the journey back home, hoping to see smoke coming from the chimney to show that food was being prepared. The optimism filled Patrica's brain and she kicked stones as she passed by and looked at the clear blue sky. It wasn't until she heard the engine of a car that she stopped and turned.

     "Hey Gyspy!" A boy from the car yelled. The use of the word began to make Patrica's blood brew. He meant it as an insult, the same way the boys back at Ireland did. The scrawny boys from the Protestant school who thought they were was dangerous as the Irish Mob would always tug at her hair and threaten to cut up her face, sometimes even drown her in acid. But they were all bark and no bite. Maybe these Yankees were the same.  
     But the driver kept revving up his engine. The boys sneered and laughed; one threw a can of root beer at her but missed by a far shot. Patrica kept silent, poker faced; not giving them anything to pick on, in hopes they would drive away. One boy stood from the leather seat of the car. He had a blond mullet; the worst hairstyle Patrica had ever seen. She was about to laugh, until the engine roared and the car was speeding right towards her.

     Patrica Doyle began to run for her life.


	4. Patrica Meets a Clown

Are you aware of that feeling in your legs when you run for miles? The numbness in your knees when you are facing the steepness of a hill, or the casual buckling of your joints when your brain screams for rest, even though your gut is yelling for you to run until the threat is over. Patrica Doyle felt it ingratiatingly, her skinny legs striding and her arms swinging; hoping that any sort of movement will make her move faster. By this point she outran Henry Bowers's car, cutting into the back garden of someone's home and jumping a fence, sprinting from the outskirts of Derry into what the residents called the Barrens; where sewage leaked out of rusty pipes and tall trees fenced around boulders and junk. Patrica knew her caravan was near these parts, and dilemma faced her. She could hear the thundering footsteps of the gang, they obviously have now decided to prance her by foot. Patrica didn't know what was worse; being ran over by a car or carved up by the hands of a knife, which she smartly guessed Henry was carrying. Yet, this wasn't Ireland, this was America. Americans carried guns, flame throwers, swords, anything big and deadly. Patrica's heart nearly collapsed on her at the thought of a gun to her head; the last time she saw a gun was when the Crap-hats sailed to Ireland and marched the streets. Fear; it will always be here, no matter the continent.

In the tick of two seconds Patrica felt throbbing in her head and her legs buckle. She fell face first into the rocky ground and the streaming water, seeing trickles of blood mingle with the clear liquid. One of Henry's goons had thrown a rock to her head and she could hear their roars of laughter. Her vision was fuzzy and she tried to get up; until someone lifted her up for her.  
Henry had Patrica by the neck of her top, holding her petite body in the air and watching her frail and choke on her collar. The gang surround the back of him like a horse shoe. There was three others, a tall lanky one, a fat one and the other had blinding blond hair. They didn't look much, until Patrica saw the look in their eyes. They looked menacing with unnecessary rage.  
"Enjoy your run, tinker?" Henry Bowers asked, raising his eyebrow which had a slit throw the arch. Patrica made sure to look him dead in the eye and show no fear, even when he called her a slur.  
"Look how dirty she is." One of the gang spat, yanking her hair back and scoffing. "We could smell you a mile a way!"  
"Yeah, just shows how she brought this on herself." Another gang member said, the fat one. He dressed like a typical American and was the size of one too. It angered her to think how much this greedy bastard ate in a day while Patrica and her family never knew when their next meal was.  
Patrica felt too brave. These boys were nothing compared to the hard men she's encountered. Grown men have threatened to kill her, she's had guns pointed to her temple, she's been thrown around as if she's dead meat. These boys? These foolish American boys who have no idea of war and violence? She could take them on.

And that's when she spat on Henry Bower's face.

He dropped her from the surprise, gagging and grunting, both disgusted and in rage. The lanky boy, who she heard was Patrick Hockstetter, stood in shock for a solid two seconds before lunging for Patrica. Yet, Patrica was already running through the streaming water and away from the boys.

"GET BACK HERE!" Henry shouted, "YOU FUCKING GYPSY! YOU FUCKING LOW PIECE OF HUMAN TRASH! GET THE FUCK BACK!"

Patrick began to sprint after her. He was taller, and can run further. Patrica was quicker, and can move her legs like a boat's port against the current. She hadn't realized how close Patrick was getting. She dared to not look back, but realized her fate when a hand gripped her long braid and yanked her back.  
"Where'd you run how to run like that, Jesse Owens?" Patrick scoffed, still gripping her hair with surprising strength. Patrica grunted and flailed her arms to cause pain, then she was shut up with a hard blow to her stomach. She yelled, but didn't retaliate. The pain was too much. Patrick lifted her up to his eye level and watched her glorious defeat, a smirk coming along his pale, zitty face. "You put up a good fight, tink." Patrick gave the benefit of the doubt, but it made Patrica glare. Patrick gave her one last punch in the stomach before dropping her to the wet, rocky ground. Her body collapsed onto the concrete like road kill flying back from impact. She never dared got up until the boys had left; she was playing dead. Once the roar of masculine boasts was nowhere to be heard throughout the Barrens, Patrica began to stand on her exhausting feet.

Patrica twenty seven years later always thinks about that day. The horror before the horror, how naive twelve year old Patrica was to the fear she never knew she had. Young Patrica knew she was scared of one thing; guns. She was scared of the sound they made, how the victims flew back from the impact once shot, even at how they looked. Bombs were another thing that got her into panic. Thirty-seven year old Patrica knew her younger self was scared of other things rather than weapons of mass destruction. She was scared of men; how oblivious she was to their dark desires and violent natures. She was scared of womenhood; the conversations her grandmother gave her about finding a man and marrying him, obeying him, having his off-spring. She was scared of the unknown; how she never knew why her mum would come home late every night with smudged lipstick and rolls of money in her pocket. She was scared of the alcohol perched on a shelf in her caravan, and how much her grandmother drank of it in just one hour. Patrica was scared of the own explicit life she lived, the one of sex and violence and abuse, and how she didn't know how to survive in it.

That's when the balloon floated towards her. The culmination of her fears in a helium red balloon tied on a bit of string floated towards her with no threat. It scared her more than Patrick Hockstetter's blows. It could pop at any second, or the string could catch on her hair and float her into the sky. Why was this so frightening?

"Hiya, Patty!" 

The voice echoed through the Barrens, making the small girl gasp and hunch. The balloon came to a halt in front of her face, the smooth curves shining in the sunlight. Weirdly enough, Patrica had a feeling this balloon was talking to her. She was instead confused and was about to walk away, until the voice spoke again.

"Don't you want the balloon?"

The voice was full of curiousity. Childlike, like an adult trying to make an infant laugh. The voice had a hint of sadness; it's gratitude was dismissed and the voice was hurt. Patrica gulped. Her stomach was aching and her legs were shivering. She just wanted to go home. When will this end?  
The voice didn't talk, Patrica heard something else instead. It came from the balloon, she knew of it, the sound was right in front of her. She inched gingerly towards the floating red balloon, taking a hold of the thin white string and pulling it towards her hearing rear. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The ticking continued and gave time for her to process this madness. Then, Patrica's eyes widened.

Before she could run the balloon erupted. The rubber burst and Patrica was thrown back. She screamed at the impact, her joints felt like they bent back into other shapes. Her face burned and her insides were melting, she screamed so much her throat was slowly becoming hoarse. When the smoke cleared and she could see the blue American sky; the pain suddenly fell away.  
From something so small, it's blow was deadly. Patricia felt stupid, she should've ran back home and not have taken the balloon. What was happening? Patricia lifted her beetle-black eyes and looked around the Barrens. Nothing; no string, no flimsy red rubber, it was as if nothing happened. It was just a balloon, fallen astray from a birthday party, Patricia reassured. The burst scared me, the explosion was my imagination, I've been through a lot.

When Patricia began to hear distant voices of young boys talking, she began to run as fast as she could.


	5. Boy Talk of The Leprechaun

"I'm telling you, Eddie, Relax by Frankie Goes to Hollywood is about a man taking it up the shitter! And he enjoys it!" Richie Tozier exclaims in the small Eddie Kaspbrak's face, making him squirm out of his way.  
"Lay off, Richie! I didn't need to know about that." Eddie dismissed.  
"Why do you think Jack Glensdale has it on cassette and listens to it on the bus? We've been saying he's a queer for years!" Richie looked around at all the boys, splurging through the Barren's waste and water. Stanley was on the verge of puking.

"W-Who w-was the new girl?" Bill Denbrough asked, who was the tallest of the bunch. He shined a flashlight into each sewage tunnel, thinking to himself while still in conversation. Bill was still determined to find Georgie's body, even if it haunts him. What haunts him more is knowing Georgie's body is possibly stuck in a sewage pipe, trampled on by rats, ate by maggots . . . It made Bill shiver.

"The Leprechaun?" Richie jokingly referred. He earned a glare from Stanley.  
"Her name is Patrica." Stanley said.  
"Oh yeah, she sits next to you in English." Eddie thoughtfully said.  
"She asked me a really weird question though . . ." Stanley scratched his head.  
"Did she ask if you like it up the shitter?" Richie grinned.  
"RICHIE!"  
"Okay! Jesus-Fuck guys . . ."

"She asked . . . She asked if I was a bishop." Stanley told, furrowing his eyebrows the same as the other boys. It took a while for them to figure out what it was, a short pause between their conversation. Even Richie took time to think.  
"Must be someone who builds a type of thing?" Eddie chimed.  
"Maybe Bishops build Leprechaun houses and she needed somewhere to live." Richie laughed at his own joke. No one else did.

"S-She does look . . ." Then Bill made a gesture with his hand, "Y'Know . . ."  
"Like a Leprechaun?" Stanley frowned, having disbelief that Bill would actually agree with Richie.  
"No - I mean like . . . not that well off." Bill shamefully muttered.  
"Someone told me they seen her mum coming out the principles office. They said she was breathtaking." Eddie said, with a bashful look on his face. "She looked like that Patrica girl but older."  
"Did she have big tits?" Richie asked.  
"I don't know, dip-wad." Eddie said frustratingly.  
"No I - I actually think Patrica's kinda pretty. Don't you think?" Stanley took the risk and asked. The boys stared at him, making the judgement for themselves. Each one of them jogged their memory of Patrica Doyle, with her boyish figure and olive skin. Her nose that came to a puny point, her wavy black-as-black hair. Even the small details like her brown eyes and freckles.  
"Nah." Eddie said.  
"Why not?" Stanley asked, almost defensively.  
"Well . . . Bill was right, she does look a little run-down. I seen her shoes at lunch, they looked like shoes my grandma would wear."  
"They're British shoes though, y'know they all wear smarty-pant shoes like that, don't they?" Richie asked.  
"Ireland isn't in B-B-B-FUCK! - Britain." Bill stammered. "Th-They're fighting for indep-p-pendence."

"I think Uris has a little crush, amirite guys?" Richie wiggled his eyebrows. "I mean, who wouldn't? She's not that ugly, plus she's the first female that has acknowledged him that isn't his mother."  
Richie walked up to Stanley's face and started making kissing noises, worming his arms around himself and pretending to make-out with the air. "Oh Patrica! You sexy little leprechaun! Please take my Jewish boy virginity and we can have tiny little leprechaun babies!" Richie flailed around, splashing the water and making Eddie scream from the fright. "You dip-shit, that water's diseased! My mom's gonna kill me!"  
Richie ignored him and continued to do a really bad Irish accent. "Top o' the morning, Jew boy. I shall indeed give you ginger midget babies o' wear dirty brown shoes and we can live in a pot o' gold!" Richie was bent double at his impression.

"You're so no-not funny, Ri-Richie." Billy rolled his eyes. The boys continued to walk the Barrens, and they will never be bewildered by Henry and his goons beating up Patrica, or Patrica's strange encounter with a balloon. They will never know what she experienced that day.


End file.
